Chapter 6: Dorothy Cain, Grade A C***

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I didn’t remember most of it. I remembered her—I remembered my most recent tormentor, but not the rest. They were fuzzy and blurred, memories that took their time spiraling back to me out of the Aether. Coins being dropped down a deep well, taking days to reach the bottom.

Now that they’re here, I wish they’d remained dormant.

As it turns out, it’s relatively easy to hang a person even when you feel compelled to do what they tell you. Most mortals are not terribly intelligent — especially ones who decide it’s a good idea to summon spirits from beyond. I recall a British soldier who called me forth shortly after I died. What was the order he gave me? Sitting in that bath, head turned towards me, a smile lazy on his face. Why don’t you come here and give me a good washing?

I crossed the room to him and held him under the water until he drowned. I remember the way the glass eye popped out of his socket and rolled across the bottom of the wooden tub.

Geoffrey Ambrose. That was his name. Barely worth remembering, really.

He’s not the one who comes to mind though. Not the one who springs up front and center. No. That place is reserved for her. The one who no doubt got me imprisoned in the first place, locked behind the Archive’s most deeply guarded vault. Dorothy Cain. The woman who managed to hold my leash for thirty years.

And who tormented me for every moment of them.

For some reason I can’t remember how I killed her. I know that I did — it’s a tantalizing knowledge, the scent of something sweet wafting from just out of sight. She’s not the only one: I know there have been others, members of the Archive who pressed me too far. But none of them could hold a candle to her. None of them could even get close. The way she defiled me…the things she made me do, always skirting the constraints put on her by the organization. They knew how terrible she was. Knew she’d driven one spirit insane already. But they stuck me with her because it wasn’t relevant: I was, after all, just a demon.

I suppose I still am.

When I come back to myself and the memories stop their assault, I realize that Lydia has pulled me closer to her. A stiffness enters my limbs, filled with a sense of dread and fury. How long before she realizes what she’s capable of? She’s oblivious now, but she won’t stay that way for long. I will break the chain eventually—even if I have to slit her throat to do it—but I can already tell it won’t be easy. By some horrific fluke, I’ve been bound to someone powerful. Not everyone has the capacity to manipulate the Aether, to from a bond strong enough for true control. But knowing what I know now—sensing the ties already forming between us—I know Lydia is one such person. She’s as strong as Dorothy Cain.

She may even be stronger.

I’m just about to shove her away from me when her words finally register, and I stop, my hands pressed lightly against her waist.

“…sorry,” she rasps. “I’m so sorry. If you ever need anything — anything at all, just tell me. Jesus Christ, Lucas. I can’t believe anyone would do that to you.”

My nostrils flare as I begin throwing up a barrier between our minds. I must have let some of those memories seep over to her. I should find out how much she knows — she can’t know about my killings. If she did, I doubt she’d be holding me like this, knowing what I was capable of. She doesn’t react to the barrier right away—I know the emotions must be ebbing from her, but the memory of them must be strong enough that she continues holding on to me.

“I’m quite fine Lydia, really.” I move my hands to her shoulders, holding them and pushing against her softly. “Quite alright.” I plaster on a smile. It comes easily to me, the smile—at least that much hasn’t changed with the new revelations.

She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. A part of me is surprised by her reaction. I know that there can be overlap through the bond—that she can feel what I fee —but I’ve never experienced this level of resonance before.

This must be why the Archive hasn’t intervened, I think. Why they’re waiting to see what happens. They’re observing her.

Another thought occurs to me, one that makes my blood boil.

They want to see if she can control me.

“No it’s not fine,” she spits. The venom from her surprises me, and I take an involuntary step back. “It’s not fucking fine, Lucas. None of what I just saw was fine.”

“I…”

“They tortured you. You understand that, don’t you?” She swallows, and though she’s angry, I realize the anger isn’t directed at me. “And that. That bitch. She raped you.” She bares her teeth, making a strangling motion with her hands. Evidently she can’t articulate her rage with words, but I can feel it all the same. It’s so hot it froths over the barrier and sprays me with the foam.

Beside us, the coffee mug flies from the table and shatters against a nearby wall.

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I stare at it. Stare at the pieces scattered across the ground. The brown liquid lazily seeps into the carpet. Lydia swears again, uttering something about towels, scrambling off to a closet and yanking one out. As she kneels down on the floor and begins sopping up the mess, she peers up at me.

“Look, you’ve got every reason to be upset, but my mom bought me that mug. If you want to break something, just give me a warning and I’ll find something else.”

My mind reels as I stare down at her. My mouth is dry, and my heart begins pounding in my — no, Lucas's — chest. The fear blooming there must be clear on my face, because Lydia gives me a puzzled look.

“Lucas? You alright?”

“I’m fine.” The smile remains perfectly in place, even if the color has drained from my skin. “I’m sorry. I need a moment to myself. I won’t go far. Would you excuse me?”

I step around her, gliding for the door. I hear a protest from her as I open it — “Lucas? Are you sure you’re okay?” — but no orders. She doesn’t demand that I stay, and I’m through the door and down the hall before she can give that command. Before she can force me to.

My vision wavers at the edges as I struggle against the panic rising, cresting like a wave.

Panic because I didn’t break that mug.

She did.

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I had no plan, no notion as to where I was headed. It was just after noon, the air crisp and cool, though I hardly felt it. Lucas’s body made distant protest, but I didn’t care. The cold wasn’t enough to harm it physically, so it wasn’t of any real concern.

I’m near the edge of town when I realize that someone has started following me. Avidia. Of course it’s Avidia. I doubt she’s stopped watching me since the moment she left Peter Nell’s house.

I would give anything to have something to weaponize against her. Gods, I need to find out what her true name is.

“Wiiiilliaaaaam,” she says, her voice drifting to me. I can see the fog of her breath in the air as she draws up beside me.

“What.” My words are clipped, forced past my clenched teeth.

“Oh, no need to be so upset, my dear. You should be elated! It’s not everyone who gets bound to a Shaper.”

The word rings through me, dredging up a sickening feeling in my stomach. Dread. I snap a reply before thinking. “She’s not a Shaper.”

Avidia skips ahead of me, walking backwards so she can face me. She keeps perfect pace, her dark eyes glittering equal parts malice and mirth. “Maybe not. Maybe she’s something even stronger. Still, you and I both know it’s not your usual that can tap into our powers and use them for themselves. The archive will be delighted.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Avidia laughs at me, the sound high and honey-sweet. “Have you forgotten what I am, darling? A Sibyl. The spirit of a seer. You may be able to wrap anything and anyone around your finger, but don’t forget that I see all.”

I stop walking. She stops with me, perfectly matching the ceasing of my stride. The last house in Capital lingers beside us, a run-down little shack with boarded up windows. There’s no car in the driveway, and the front yard is full of long, wild grass.

I grab Avidia by the arm and begin moving towards it. She doesn’t protest — she just laughs under her breath as I wrench the door open, scattering the bolts across the porch, and then shove her inside.

When the door slams shut behind us, we’re left in a sort of murky half-light, dust motes floating amidst beams that come through cracks in ceiling. Avidia watches me expectantly, looking like a cat who’s caught a mouse.

“Why are you following me?” I growl, feeling my anger seething in the pit of my stomach.

“I told you that much, weren’t you paying attention? The Archive is keeping an eye on you. Though, frankly, now they’re far more interested in…what was her name again? Lydia Grace?” She makes a face. “Rather a pretentious name, don’t you think?”

“What about her.” In spite of myself, I feel a strange protectiveness rear its head. I know I shouldn’t. It’s probably just the lingering remnants of her first command to me, clinging like stubborn cobwebs. Help me. Help me. Help me.

The smile drops from Avidia’s face. “I assure you, the Archive will become extremely invested once they realize what that girl is.” A pause, a weighted one. “And I can promise you that if you kill her, they won’t simply lock you away this time. They’ll burn your book. They’ll sever your tether to this plane.”

The threat rocks me to my core. I think of the Aether, of the aimlessness of it, of the spirits that wander lost and forgotten deep within its mists. I’ve seen some of them as they come unglued. Slowly unwinding like a ball of string, everything that they were and everything that they could be gone forever.

“No,” I say, my words resonating deep within my chest.

Avidia grins at me, the expression cheshire and malicious. “Oh, yes. And I imagine that will make things rather difficult for you, won’t it? After all this time, you’re still searching for her, aren’t you? That sweet little soul, wandering about in the void. What was her name again? You dear, precious little siste—”

I’ve move towards her without thinking, a blur of force that slams her into the wall of the house. Sibyls aren’t weak, but I’ve fed recently, and she wasn’t anticipating the attack. My hands wrap around her throat as I heave her up off her feet, her toes dangling towards the ground. Through it all, her stubborn smile never wavers.

“Ohhh,” she says, voice rasping, vibrating against my fingers. “Someone’s feeling touchy.”

She rallies, slamming her knee up into my groin. I twist at the last moment, the blow impacting with my thigh. The pain registers in a distant, disconnected sort of way — there’s too much anger pumping in me to really acknowledge it. Avidia’s lips abruptly press themselves against my ear, and I snarl at her, about to reel back, clenching my fist and…

“You will bring the girl to the Archive,” she breathes. The words are spoken like a prophecy. A fortelling written in stone. “You will bring Lydia Grace to the Archive, William Doherty, as swiftly as you possibly can.”

I shudder, her power rippling through me, trying to find hooks within my mind. Sibyls aren’t as persuasive as incubi can be — but they are still potent manipulators, and Avidia has had centuries to hone her talents. With enough willpower, I wager she could make the lines on a palm tell a different fate.

And, of course, she knows my True Name. That never helps things.

I stand in the middle of the room as she runs a finger along one of my shoulders. “See you soon, darling,” she murmurs quietly. I don’t turn to watch her as she leaves. I only fight the spell for a moment more, and then I let it settle into me. Why do I care? If the Archive wants the girl, they can have her. It’s no business of mine.

She’s mine, comes the thought. A fleeting growl. It’s gone so quickly that I barely notice. It’s just the bond. Just the bond binding me tighter to her. Making me think I want her.

How will I lure her there? I stand in that abandoned house until the sun sinks low, the light trickling in through the broken door growing dim. By the time I walk into the coming night, I have an idea in my head and a smile on my face.